Playing with Fire

by Lexi Ryan

  I glance out the door after Max, who’s joined Will on the sidewalk. All broad-shouldered and sweaty, those two are giving every college girl walking by unrealistic expectations.

  “He’s just checking on me.” And maybe that’s not true, but I’m going to need to turn that conversation with Max over in my head a few times before I know what to make of it.

  “And how are you?” Krystal asks as I head to the counter. I know she’s worried about me, which is fair, considering the way I zoned out last night. “Okay this morning?”

  I haven’t been anything close to okay in a lot of years, but at least there’s a good chance I’m not crazy.

  God, I’m being dramatic, but that’s the best I’ve got.

  When I saw that symbol burning in my yard last night, my first thought was of Patrick McCane, my first boyfriend, my first love, and my biggest mistake. My first thought was the terror that he’d found me. It wasn’t until I made myself go to bed that the next thought really clicked into place. Maybe I’m not crazy.

  That’s the irony of that burning Thurisaz. It was a threat, and I have no doubt it was intended to be sinister, yet it gave me hope. Maybe there’s an explanation for all of this—seeing Patrick’s reflection, feeling like I was being followed, believing the phone calls weren’t random.

  Of course I’m not going to tell Krystal all of that, not in the middle of Hanna’s bustling bakery, not ever. I say, “I’m fine, but a little tired. Could I have a double shot of espresso with cream and one of Hanna’s chocolate croissants?”

  “For here? I could take a break and sit with you.”

  I shake my head. “To go, please. I need to get to the hospital.”

  “Got it. Coming right up.” She hits some buttons on the espresso machine and grabs a bag for my pastry. Instead of handing it to me across the counter, she calls into the kitchen that she’s leaving for a few minutes, and then comes around the counter to meet me. “I’ll walk you to work.”

  We walk in silence toward the hospital for a while, and I’m grateful. I insisted on staying alone at my house last night, but not a minute of the night passed when I didn’t regret that decision. The fire did what I’m sure it was intended to do—freak me way-the-hell out.

  When she finally speaks, I expect her to ask about the fire at my house again, but she doesn’t. “Are you coming to the bonfire at Asher’s this weekend?”

  I cut my eyes to her, but she seems serious. “I think I’ve had all the fire I can handle for a while.”

  “This is the good kind of fire,” she says, smiling. “With beer and hot dogs and friends. Not the crazy shit that happened on your lawn.”

  I shrug. I want to say no, but the desire not to let my fears control me makes me say, “Sure. I can come.”

  “And will you be bringing a date?” She tries to keep the question light, but since I wasn’t born yesterday, I know she’s digging for information.

  “If you’re asking if I’ll be attending on Max’s arm, then the answer is no. I’m pretty sure he’s going with Janelle Crane.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes widen and she looks horrified on my behalf. See? Even my friend doesn’t think I can compete with the likes of Janelle. Not that I want to. “Want to tell me the real reason nothing ever came of you and Max?”

  “What?”

  She crosses her arms and narrows her eyes at me. “I talked to Will when he was in the bakery the other day. I asked him what he knew about you and Max, and he admitted that Max has carried a torch for you for months. He said you were going to let Max take you out but then you suddenly changed your mind.”

  My steps slow. I’m trying to imagine Max caring enough about dating me to talk to his friends about it.

  Krystal puts her hand on my arm, stopping me before she pulls me to the edge of the sidewalk. “Tell me the truth, please. Something’s going on. What is it?”

  “I got spooked,” I blurt.

  “What do you mean? Did he do something to freak you out? Drop to a knee and propose marriage?” She quirks a brow. “Or maybe he just called you beautiful, and you thought he might mean it and ran.”

  “No—wait. What? Called me beautiful? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Krystal rolls her eyes. “It means you’re totally uncomfortable with the idea of being sexy. Sure, you dabble in it from time to time, but mostly you wear unflattering shirts buttoned to the top, hide your body, and keep your hair tied back in a knot. You have a problem with being pretty.”

  I shake my head. We’ll come back to that later. Or never. “Well, no. He didn’t call me beautiful. I just . . .” The bumblebees are back in my stomach. The blade-winged bastards stir at the idea of saying it out loud, but suddenly I want to. I need to. Maybe it’s just sleep deprivation talking, but this is my new life—here in New Hope with my new friends who have become more like family than those who share my blood. Maybe I don’t have to carry all of this alone anymore. Maybe I can share some of my fears, even if explaining everything and exposing my past is out of the question.

  “You just what?” Krystal asks.

  “I smelled smoke,” I whisper, and the bumblebees spasm, their sharp wings slicing up the inside of my stomach.

  “What does that mean?” Krystal’s voice has gone softer. She must see the fear on my face.

  “Liz ended up showing up that night and staying over, but after Max left I could smell smoke.” I wait for her face to change and for her to look at me like I’m crazy. Like I’m my mom. But she doesn’t.

  She says, “Tell me what you mean, Nix.”

  “At first, I thought it was just my memory playing tricks on me. Me and fire . . .” I shake my head. “But the longer I was in the house, the more sure I was that the smell was real. I couldn’t find a fire or any evidence that there had been one. But I smelled it.” I bite my lip hard then force a smile, my desire to unload my burden tempered by the fear of anyone I care about knowing the truth. “I convinced myself it was all in my head, but any thoughts of pursuing a relationship with Max burned up in that fire I could never find.”

  Krystal studies me for a beat. “You want to tell me what’s up with the fire thing?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s . . . my old life.” And you’ll never look at me the same way if I tell you.

  “You smelled smoke after sleeping with Max, and then he moves in next door to you, and someone lights some symbol on fire in your yard. You’re obviously scared as shit of it, and somebody knows that. This isn’t just a prank, Nix. This is straight-up harassment. I’m not saying you have to tell me, but you need to tell someone the truth. The whole story.”

  Eight

  Max

  The conversation with Nix left me feeling antsy, so I convinced Will to run another mile with me. We pushed hard, nearly sprinting the whole thing, and when I step into the club I’m drenched in sweat, and the muscles in my legs are twitching with fatigue.

  “Look at you!” someone calls as I head to the shower.

  I turn to see Meredith, my daughter’s mother, weaving her way through the weight room. Her long blond hair shifts softly over her breasts as she rushes toward me and takes my hands.

  “Hey, Mer.” Grabbing a towel off the rack, I glance at the clock. I have twenty minutes before my next training session, and my chances of a shower are looking slim.

  Meredith dropping back into town unannounced isn’t a surprise to me. She works for a Parisian company that makes fancy hair products, and she travels around France doing hair shows for them. Or something. I don’t really know the details or care to. But the job keeps her away from Claire more often than she’s around her. Meredith comes and goes as she pleases—but she doesn’t typically drop by the club uninvited. Unless she wants a favor.

  “Where’s Claire?” she asks, scanning the gym, as if I’d bring my daughter here to play while I work all day.

  “At preschool.”

  She nods and waves her hand to indicate my sweat-soaked
appearance. “Obviously you’re not with a client right now. Can you spare a minute? It won’t take long.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Good.” With a flirtatious smile, she steps forward and loops her arms behind my neck. She rises onto her toes and presses her mouth to mine. I can tell she wants the kiss to become more, but I don’t lift my hands to touch her or open my mouth for hers. Once, I couldn’t keep my hands off her. She wanted Will, and I wanted her, and every once in a while she threw me a bone. Claire was the result of one of those times. Maybe if things were different, Meredith and I could have made it work. Maybe if Meredith didn’t hide that I’m Claire’s father, or maybe if she didn’t try to destroy my first healthy relationship, she and I would be raising Claire together now.

  She takes her lips from mine and falls back to her heels.

  I don’t owe her any explanation for not returning her kiss, but she’s been a friend too long, and I hate seeing the pain on her face. “Mer—”

  “You still haven’t forgiven me,” she says, as if that’s the only reason a man wouldn’t want to make out with her. “Are you still in love with her?”

  I frown. “Who said I was in love?” How on earth did she find out about me and Nix?

  She cocks her head. “It was kind of implied when you were going to marry her.”

  Oh. Here I am thinking of Nix and Meredith is still asking about ancient history. “Hanna and I broke up almost two years ago. She’s happily married now, has another man’s babies.”

  “I didn’t ask when you broke up or the state of her marriage. I asked if you’re still in love with her.”

  I swallow, and my mind immediately conjures the only brunette who’s been in my thoughts lately. “I can confidently say I’m over Hanna.”

  Meredith studies me, a wrinkle in her brow. “Well, good.”

  “And I’ve forgiven you. I just don’t feel that way about you anymore.”

  “Okay. Understood.” She drops her arms and steps back, putting some space between us. I’d have to be dead to miss the hurt in her eyes.

  “What was it you needed to talk about?”

  “Oh yeah.” She shakes her head and her expression shifts from wounded to carefully masked. “Would you do me a favor and pack Claire’s bags? Let her know we’re going to be taking a trip soon? We’ll be heading out Sunday night.”

  I sigh. It would be nice if she asked if I had plans, but when Meredith comes home she expects the entire town to stop its normal orbit and rotate around her. “Sure. How many nights should I pack for?”

  “Three weeks,” she says.

  “No,” I reply. “That’s ridiculous. You can have her through the following weekend, but—”

  “No, Max. I’m taking my daughter to Paris with me when I leave next week. Please pack enough for three weeks.”

  “What the fuck, Meredith? She’s a child, not some toy you can borrow as you please.”

  “She’s my child.”

  “This is her home.”

  Meredith sighs heavily. “I don’t understand why you’re acting so shocked,” she says. “We’ve talked about this for months.”

  We’ve talked about the possibility of Claire joining her in Paris some time, but the conversation was always in the abstract. Truth be told, I never thought Meredith would want the bother of having her daughter with her. “You could have warned me it was coming so soon,” I say, trying my best to keep my patience. “She has school.”

  “I’ll pay you back for the time she misses.”

  “It’s not about the money.”

  “I think she’ll be okay if she misses a few days of preschool. I promise to practice the alphabet with her every day.”

  “I don’t like this.”

  She gives me a sad smile. “That’s because you’re an awesome father. I’m grateful that she has you, Max, but I want my daughter to be with me for this trip.”

  “I’m just pointing out that it might not be what you imagine. She’s not some teenager you can drag around to your favorite cafes, and she’s not old enough to appreciate the attractions.” Never mind that she’s used to living with me. Spending a few days with her mother every few months hasn’t exactly established the kind of connection Claire needs to leave me for three whole weeks.

  “I know you think I’m a terrible mom,” Meredith says, “but this is important to me.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think you’re a terrible mother.” I think you’re an absent one.

  “Please. I think this would be good for Claire. She needs a relationship with me. I know I haven’t been good about making that happen, but I’m trying here.”

  Fuck. She’s right. I hate it, but she’s right. And I could fight her about how sudden it is and insist she take Claire on a later trip, but what’s the point? Letting her go for three weeks is going to kill me if it happens now or this winter. “Let me know if she’s having a hard time, okay? I’ll jump on a plane and come to get her early.”

  “Okay.” She rubs my shoulder and gives a half-smile. “I promise. I wish you understood that I’ve grown up a lot in the last few years. I’ll be okay with her.”

  “You’re not the one I’m worried about, Mer.”

  * * *

  Nix

  “Do you know the way to Camelot, to Camelot, to Camelot? Do you know the way to Camelot, to Camelot my dear?”

  The old song runs through my head like a record on repeat, so the minute I step into my house I turn on the stereo, cranking an Ani DiFranco CD at top volume. Then, in the spirit of facing my fears head on, I sit down at my computer, pull up the web browser, and type in the name I’ve spent the last thirteen years trying to scrub from my brain.

  Patrick McCane.

  The first six results are all social media profiles, and none of the pictures look like the man I’m searching for. I click through a few more pages of results and find some athletes and a lawyer by that name, but none appear to be the guy I believe burned a symbol from my past into my front yard.

  I was sixteen when I met Patrick. I was a bit of a dorky teen, more interested in books than boys, and more apt to daydream about college and grad school than parties and romance. Back then, I thought I wanted to get my PhD in physics and be a college professor. My mother was rarely stable and never rational, and as a means of self-preservation, I loved science and math and everything that could be quantified. The library was my church, and logic was my gospel.

  One day I was at the public library and I ran into Patrick—literally. I had my nose stuck in A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking and was pacing the stacks while I read and bam! I ran smack into a rock-hard chest.

  I’d never understood girls who lost their brains when cute boys were close, but when I looked up at Patrick it was like someone opened the drain on my brain, and all I’d ever known spilled right out into a puddle at my feet. He was . . . everything. Tall, with a runner’s lean form and ropy muscles in his arms. His face was striking—all strong features and hard angles, like something you’d see in a magazine. Then he smiled and said, “Good book.”

  “It is.” I stepped back to respect his personal bubble, even though I wanted to be close, where I could smell his soap and feel his heat.

  He extended a hand. It was a good hand. Big. Strong. Not too rough and not too soft. “My name’s Patrick.”

  On the verge of that precipice over which you become nothing but a giggling, tittering girl, I made myself take it and shake it hard. “My name is Phoenix.”

  “Phoenix? Like the bird that’s reborn from the ash?” His grip was firm. Confident. Long enough that I felt as if he liked touching me, but not so long that it seemed creepy.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Wow. What a name. It must kick ass to have a name like that.”

  Not really, given my mom’s reasons for choosing it, but I didn’t say so.

  Over the next few weeks, I fell. Hard. Partially because he was the most gorgeous guy I’d ever seen, and partially
because of the way my stomach seemed to bloom with life every time he looked at me, but mostly because he could talk books and philosophy the way no guy I’d met ever could. Unfortunately, my mom and little sister fell in love with him as quickly as I did—and maybe more so—and as soon as they were in his snare, all our lives were inextricably tangled with his, and I found my whole family dragged into Patrick’s world.

  The months that followed may have been easier if my brain had stayed in a pool at my feet, but bit by bit my mind returned to me. By the time my mom had decided to move us to Camelot, I wasn’t sure about Patrick anymore, and by the time I caught my mom secretly planning the wedding ceremony for her sixteen-year-old daughter, I wasn’t just skeptical, I was terrified.

  Thirteen years later, and my months at Camelot feel almost more like a dream than a memory. In fact, my time in New Hope made it easy to pretend my past wasn’t my own. As if my memories were just something I saw in a terrible movie once, but I’d turned off the film and was free to carry on with my normal life.

  I go back to the search bar and decide to try a different angle. I can’t search “Camelot” and expect any relevant results. I try “Camelot commune” and get information about a new senior housing program in Boston. The results for “Camelot Indiana” don’t prove any more useful.

  With shaking hands and a sick feeling in my gut, I try “Camelot cult.”

  The results have something about some hotel in England that’s believed to be connected to Scientology, but there’s no Scientology connection to the Camelot that I’m looking for, and the rest of the results are too far afield to be relevant.

  I close my computer and bite my lip. I could call my mother again, but I wouldn’t expect answers any different than last time.

  The problem is, I don’t know where to look for answers because I don’t understand what’s happening. I left Camelot thirteen years ago and worked my ass off to build the life I have. Why is he after me now? I hardly believe that he couldn’t find me before, not in the age of computers.